Chapter 24: Sith Happens
The chamber was quiet. Too quiet.
And I don't mean that in a cliché Scooby Doo kind of way. I mean actually too quiet. The chamber was sealed, air tight. We got nothing. No ambient winds, or even the subtle humm of electricity in the walls.
Nothing particularly Sith-y, either.
No roaring fire. No chanting. No spikes springing from the floor or lightning cracking overhead. Just the kind of silence that made the dust in your nostrils feel personal. I glanced at Maris, and she raised an eyebrow. Whatever this was, we were about to do it.
Wrath floated ahead of us, mask gleaming under the faint ambient light. "Your training is complete," he said. His voice carried the weight of centuries, though it sounded suspiciously like someone who'd read one too many self-help holocrons. "You are now ready… for your Final Trial."
He gestured, to the empty floor.
I tried to reconcile that with the fact that the test was apparently… blank.
"Sitting?" I asked, because someone had to.
Wrath ignored me. "It is not a contest of skill or survival. It is a contest of choice."
I blinked. Choice. That was… terrifying in its own way. Not terrifying in the "oh no, they've summoned a monster" kind of way, but the existential, I-am-about-to-prove-how-terrible-I-am kind of terrifying.
And also confusing. What choice? 'Which patch of nothing would you like to stand on?'
You must choose.
… oh. That wasn't me.
The Force shifted around me, subtle at first, like a tide whispering against the shore. Then, shapes began to form. Three paths. Three versions of me. Each radiated a different energy.
The first path glowed calm, soothing, almost too orderly. I stepped closer, and instantly felt the serenity wash over me. The Force framed it perfectly: The path of the Light Side. Complete. Controlled. Safe. A life of obedience and calm, stripped of all emotions and with it, all pain. I could see it clearly—I was a Jedi. Fully trained. Serene. Detached. Entirely myself, and entirely erased at the same time.
It was… comforting. It smelled like clean robes and disappointment. I could practically hear myself lecturing some overly enthusiastic initiates about meditation and ethics. If I took this path, everything would be neat, everything predictable. I'd be safe, but someone else would define my story. And Force help me, I could feel myself wanting that safety while simultaneously hating it.
I stepped back. No. Not me.
The second path shimmered red, violent and raw. The path of the Dark Side. I saw myself there, unleashed and untamed. Power radiated off me like heat from a star. Every swing of a lightsaber precise, every action definitive. Alone. So utterly alone. I was strong enough to crush worlds, but not the people I cared about, because no one I cared about was left beside me.
The ultimate Sith.
I recognized that person. I didn't want him either. Not fully. And yet, I envied him. He had certainty, inevitability. But he lacked the warmth of life. Compassion. Humor. Friends. The chaotic, irritating things that made me feel alive. That solitude was a cage gilded with my own arrogance.
I swallowed hard. Not the answer either. Not yet.
The third path was different. Undefined. Uncertain. A strange purple hue—not calming, not violent, but alive. I didn't even know what to call it. It offered no name, promised no easy answers. Here, I walked both paths. Jedi and Sith. Control and passion. Compassion and power. The world didn't get to define me. I got to. And the Force was whispering, This is the hard way.
When has that ever deterred a Mandalorian?
Power is certainty. Why choose doubt?
I laughed internally, a little bitter. Doubt wasn't weakness. Doubt was… necessary.
Choosing doubt here wasn't the coward's way. It was the only way I could commit fully. If I embraced only the light, I would betray the fire within me. If I embraced only the dark, I would betray the people I cared about. Choosing both meant I committed to walking the hardest, loneliest path imaginable. And somehow, I was ready.
I stepped forward. Fully aware. Fully terrified. Fully alive.
"This path," I said, "is mine. I take it willingly."
Silence. Not the kind of silence you can laugh at, but the kind that presses on your chest and makes you want to bend the floorboards with your knees.
Then a subtle nod from Wrath. Not approval. Not warmth. Respect. Dangerous, quiet respect that made me feel like I hadn't just survived a trial, but maybe even passed it.
The visions faded. The paths collapsed into the chamber floor like smoke. I was still standing, a little shaky, heart hammering. Maris gave me a look—half exasperation, half smug satisfaction. I waved her off with what I hoped was confidence, but I suspect it read as tremulous bravado.
"You have chosen wisely," Wrath intoned, and I didn't even get the chance to feel giddy about the iconic line, before he continued. "Not because you chose safety, or domination. Not because you refused the test. But because you refused to be defined by it. That is what I call… potential."
I frowned.
Potential? That's pretty much a curse. Laying down the weight of expectation, and anticipation, and raising the bar high enough to crush you if you couldn't meet the standards. But I didn't correct him. Respect was a complicated thing with Wrath. You didn't take it lightly.
"Potential," I muttered. "Right."
Maris snorted. She didn't care about Wrath's speeches. She never did. She cared about the thrill, the moment, the control she wielded naturally. Watching her was… motivating, in a way.
I looked down at my hands. Still human. Still alive. Still… me. And yet something had shifted. Something fundamental. I felt the Force differently now, like I was both the storm and the calm that followed. Stronger, yes. Clearer, yes. But also… responsible, in a way I hadn't expected.
Wrath hovered closer, silent, watching me with the intensity of someone who had seen empires rise and fall, and was thoroughly unamused by most of it. He finally spoke again. "There are those who claim to be both. They are liars or fools. You, perhaps, may be something else entirely."
I didn't respond. I wasn't sure what I could have said. "Something else" sounded like an understatement. Like saying a supernova is "bright."
Maris leaned slightly forward, her face illuminated by the ambient glow, and smirked. That smirk told me she already understood the implications. She could survive this. She always could. And maybe, just maybe, so could I.
"My turn."
You know what? She's got this.
...
The chamber did not bother pretending for Maris.
The moment Ben stepped back and the last ghost of his choice dissolved into the stone floor, the Force snapped toward her like a drawn blade.
No pause.
No deliberation.
No gentle unfolding of possibility.
Just impact.
The air went hot, sharp enough to taste. The floor beneath her boots cracked, hairline fractures spiderwebbing outward as if the chamber itself had flinched. Power surged—not creeping, not coaxing, but offered, dumped into the space around her with all the subtlety of a predator shoving prey to the ground.
Good, Maris thought. Finally.
She didn't look at Ben. He'd done his thing—agonized, weighed, philosophized himself into something complicated and principled and exhausting. That was him. This was hers.
The chamber warped.
Not into paths. Not into mirrors.
Into a throne.
Black stone, veined with crimson light, carved with sigils that hummed like live wires. The kind of seat people murdered families over. The kind the galaxy pretended not to understand while secretly wanting very badly.
Power radiated from it. Real power. Not metaphorical, not symbolic. The kind that bent the Force around it into a shape that made sense.
Take it.
The thought wasn't whispered. It was presented, clean and direct.
No test.
No riddle.
No lecture.
Just take it.
Maris smiled, slow and sharp.
"Oh, this is adorable."
She stepped forward—and the Force rushed to meet her, eager, hungry, coiling around her limbs like it had been waiting. Strength flooded her muscles, made her spine straighten, her heartbeat slow into something deliberate. She could feel it already: the weight of command, the gravity of inevitability.
Yes, the Force seemed to say. You are worthy.
Then the condition revealed itself.
Not as a rule.
Not as a warning.
As an assumption.
The power didn't flow from her. It flowed through her—channeled, mediated, granted. An invisible chain hidden inside the current, light enough to miss if you didn't know how to look.
Dependence.
A throne implied a hierarchy.
A gift implied a giver.
Serve, and you may wield.
Maris stopped.
Not because she was tempted.
Because she was insulted.
She let the power surge for a heartbeat longer, just to be sure. Felt its edges. Its structure. Its limits. The way it tried to define her shape instead of adapting to it.
Cute trick.
She laughed—out loud this time, a short, humorless sound that echoed off the stone.
"You almost had me," she said, flat and unimpressed.
The chamber pressed harder. The Force thickened, trying to close around her choice, to lock her into the shape it wanted. The throne pulsed brighter, crimson light spilling like blood across the floor.
Take it, it urged. Kneel. Accept. Be elevated.
Maris rolled her shoulders.
She had grown up in the Jedi Temple. She knew cages when she saw them. Some were quiet. Some were gilded. Some smiled at you and called themselves destiny.
This one just happened to be honest enough to show its teeth.
"No," she said.
The word landed like a strike.
The illusion reacted—and that was its mistake.
The Force lashed out, pressure spiking as the chamber tried to enforce the condition. The throne's presence sharpened, authority slamming down like a command meant to override will entirely.
Maris welcomed it.
Not the command.
The resistance.
She reached—not outward, not upward—but inward, grabbing hold of the core of herself that had never bent properly for anyone. The part that had listened to Jedi Masters talk about balance and serenity and thought, That's it? The part that had watched rules get in the way of results and learned exactly how much patience was worth.
The Force wasn't something you asked permission from.
It was something you took.
She seized it.
Not the offered current—the source beneath it. The raw pressure under the shaping hand, the storm that powered the throne and the lie it was built on. She ripped into it with sheer, unapologetic will, tearing past the illusion's scaffolding like it was paper.
The chamber screamed.
Stone shattered. The throne cracked straight down the center, crimson light flaring wildly as the illusion tried to reassert control. The Force bucked, violent and furious now, no longer pretending to be generous.
Maris leaned into it.
"Mine," she said—not as a claim, but a fact.
The power surged again, unfiltered this time. No chains. No assumptions. No hierarchy.
It poured into her like fire finally allowed to burn.
She felt it reshape her—not overwrite, not erase, but sharpen. Every instinct honed. Every edge honed sharper still. The Force didn't resist now; it answered, aligning itself to her intent because she had made it very clear she would not accept anything less.
The throne collapsed completely, shattering into fragments that dissolved before they hit the floor. The chamber reasserted itself, cracks sealing, air cooling—but the power remained, coiled and obedient.
Maris exhaled slowly.
That was better.
Silence followed—not the awkward, uncertain kind Ben had endured, but the respectful quiet that followed a decisive act.
She opened her eyes.
Wrath hovered a few paces away, unmoving. His mask reflected the faint glow still clinging to her skin. He had not intervened. Had not spoken. Had not tested her with commentary or judgment.
He had watched.
Good.
Ben stood off to the side, wide-eyed and clearly processing the fact that Maris had just torn apart a Sith trial like it had personally offended her. She didn't look at him yet. She knew the expression he'd be wearing.
Wrath inclined his head.
Not approval.
Recognition.
"Most who are offered power," he said, voice calm and even, "mistake access for ownership. They kneel without realizing they have done so."
Maris finally turned her head slightly, one eyebrow lifting.
"I don't kneel."
"No," Wrath agreed. "You do not."
The chamber felt… settled now. As if something fundamental had been acknowledged and filed away. The Force around her was steady, responsive, waiting without pressing.
Wrath continued, tone almost reflective. "The last apprentice I witnessed act with such disregard for limitation was my former pupil, Jaesa Willsaam. Her confidence was… spectacular."
Maris snorted quietly. "Let me guess. Most of them don't make it."
"Most of them die," Wrath said. "Usually within their first three tests."
That earned a real smile.
"Heh. Losers."
Wrath's mask tilted slightly. Amusement, perhaps. Or calculation. With him, it was hard to tell.
"You are ready," he said. No ceremony. No embellishment. "Not because you obeyed. Not because you were tested. But because you understood the trap and chose to spring it instead."
Maris rolled her neck, feeling the last echoes of power settle into something permanent.
"Yeah," she said. "I do that."
Wrath turned away, drifting back toward the shadows of the chamber. "Then we are finished here."
Maris glanced once toward Ben, catching his eye at last. He looked stunned. Impressed. Maybe a little terrified.
She smirked.
"See?" she said lightly. "Easy."
And for once, it wasn't a lie.
...
The ritual chamber was deeper than the trial hall. Older, too—so old the Force didn't move here so much as press. Like gravity had learned to hate you personally, and made you very aware of that.
The door sealed behind us with a sound that felt final in a way I didn't appreciate. The walls were raw stone, not carved so much as scarred, etched with symbols worn down by time and repetition rather than reverence. No torches. No dramatic lighting. Just veins of dull red crystal embedded in the rock, glowing faintly like coals that had never quite gone out.
The floor was a slab of obsidian, polished smooth by centuries of feet and blood.
Yes. Blood. That was immediately obvious.
I sighed internally. Of course it was blood. Sith could invent hyperspace and immortality-adjacent cloning tech, but when it came to rituals they were still very much in their sharp rocks and hemoglobin era.
Maris stepped forward without hesitation, boots scraping softly. She looked… comfortable. Centered. Like the room had been waiting for her, not the other way around.
I followed, more cautiously. The Force pressure intensified with every step, not painful, but intimate—like it was checking my credentials and finding several contradictory entries.
Wrath hovered at the far end of the chamber, framed by a raised stone dais. No throne. No altar. Just a wide basin carved into the rock at his feet, dark with old stains.
"This chamber predates empires," he said. "Predates doctrine. Before the Rule of Two. Before the Sith mistook survival for weakness."
Encouraging.
"The ritual you will undergo does not grant power," he continued. "It acknowledges what already exists."
I stopped a few paces from the basin. The air tasted metallic. The Force curled tight around my ribs.
"Titles," Wrath said, "are not rewards. They are not aspirations. They are statements."
Maris tilted her head slightly, interested.
Wrath gestured, and the basin's surface rippled—not with water, but with something thicker. Darker. Fresh.
I stared at it. "Let me guess. We bleed on the rock, the Force does something uncomfortable, and if we don't scream we pass."
Wrath did not respond.
Which was confirmation enough.
He extended a gauntleted hand. A blade emerged from his sleeve—not a lightsaber, but a simple knife. Old. Functional. Its edge drank the red glow of the chamber.
"Blood binds identity," Wrath said. "Not because it is mystical. But because it is yours. You cannot outsource this."
Maris stepped forward first.
Of course she did.
She took the blade without ceremony, sliced her palm cleanly, and let the blood drip into the basin. No flinch. No theatrics. The Force shifted immediately, responding like a predator recognizing a familiar scent.
She didn't look away as the basin flared, crimson light threading through her blood like veins of fire.
Wrath inclined his head once.
Then he looked at me.
I took the blade.
It was heavier than it looked. Balanced. Honest. I cut my palm and hissed despite myself as pain flared sharp and immediate. No numbing hum. No lightsaber cauterization. Just blood, warm and real, spilling into the basin beside Maris's.
The Force noticed.
Pressure slammed down—not violent, but absolute. The chamber closed in, symbols on the walls igniting as if awakened. I felt exposed in a way lightsabers and combat had never managed. Like the Force wasn't looking at what I could do, but at what I was.
Wrath's voice cut through it.
"You stand at the threshold," he said. "Names will be offered. You may refuse them. But refusal does not erase truth."
Great. No pressure.
The basin flared brighter. The Force surged upward, wrapping around Maris first—dark, smooth, inevitable. She stood still, chin lifted, eyes half-lidded as if listening to something private and deeply satisfying.
Wrath turned slightly toward her.
"You embrace the night not as refuge," he said, "but as certainty. Absence as dominion. Fear as an instrument wielded, not suffered."
The Force pulsed.
"Darth Nox."
The name landed like a verdict.
Maris smiled.
Just a little.
No hesitation. No visible struggle. The name fit her the way a blade fit her hand—not because it was given, but because it had always been waiting.
"I accept," she said simply.
The Force settled around her, darkening, deepening. Not heavier—quieter. Like the world had adjusted its expectations.
Wrath turned back to me.
Unfortunate.
The pressure increased. The Force dug in, peeling back layers I had spent my entire life carefully assembling. Jedi teachings. Mandalorian instincts. Obi-Wan's quiet disappointment. Satine's impossible ideals. Ahsoka's grin. Anakin's looming shadow.
Solitude threaded through all of it.
Wrath's voice was calm. Precise. Surgical.
"You reject submission," he said. "You reject abandonment. You reject absolution."
The Force tightened.
"You do not seek harmony," he continued. "Nor do you crave chaos. You endure contradiction and call it choice."
I swallowed. My palm throbbed. Blood dripped steadily into the basin.
"You will walk without order to justify you," Wrath said. "Without doctrine to absolve you. Power will not define you. Nor will morality."
The basin flared blindingly bright.
"Darth Sol."
The word echoed.
Not sun.
Not light.
Alone.
Singular. Self-defined. Unshielded.
I hated how perfectly it fit.
Of course this was the name. Not something grand or terrifying. Just the quiet, awful truth I had been dancing around my entire life.
I thought, briefly and bitterly, of Palpatine leaning over Anakin one day and casually handing him a name like it was a party favor. No blood. No ritual. No self-examination, or introspection. Just picking whatever sounded coolest at the time.
Figures.
The Force waited.
Not impatient. Not coercive.
Just there.
"I accept," I said.
The pressure released all at once.
Not gone—integrated.
The chamber exhaled. The symbols dimmed. The basin's glow faded, blood sinking into stone as if absorbed by something vast and satisfied.
I staggered slightly. Maris caught my arm without comment, steadying me. Her grip was solid. Grounding.
Something had changed.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
But the Force felt… different. Like it now expected things from us. Like it had stopped asking who we were and started taking notes.
Wrath regarded us both in silence for a long moment.
"Learning is a lifelong process," he said at last. "The path to power, endless." He inclined his head, just slightly. "But for now… you are worthy of your titles."
The words settled into the stone.
"You are Lords of the Sith," Wrath continued. "Show the galaxy your might."
The chamber doors began to open.
I looked down at my hand. The cut had already closed, skin warm and whole. No scar. No mark.
Of course not. Sith never left evidence where it could be useful.
Maris glanced at me, eyes sharp, assessing. Then she smirked.
"Darth Sol," she said. "Wow. That's… bleak."
I snorted weakly. "Darth Nox isn't exactly cheerful."
She shrugged. "It's honest."
Yeah.
That seemed to be the theme.
...
The Slave I hummed around him, a familiar, steady vibration that Jango trusted more than most people. The ship was idling at the edge of a quiet system, engines warm, weapons hot, shields at half—ready to move the moment he decided which direction deserved his attention.
He stood at the console, helmet off, armor half-secured, reviewing a weapons diagnostic when the holoprojector chimed.
Jango wasn't surprised.
Dooku never called without a reason. And based on current events, he had good reason.
The Count's image resolved in pale blue light, tall and composed, hands folded behind his back like a man delivering a lecture rather than hiring violence. His presence filled the cockpit in a way that reminded Jango uncomfortably of Jedi—controlled, deliberate, dangerous without needing to raise his voice.
"Fett," Dooku said.
Jango inclined his head a fraction. Respect, not submission. He had killed men who demanded the latter.
"You have a situation developing," Dooku continued. "One that intersects with several of your… professional interests."
Jango crossed his arms. "You're being vague."
"Yes," Dooku agreed calmly. "Intentionally."
The hologram shifted, displaying fragmented data feeds. Senate transmissions. Intelligence briefings. Diplomatic traffic.
"Mandalore has declared independence," Dooku said. "Without aligning itself with the Confederacy of Independent Systems, or any other galactic organization."
Jango's jaw tightened.
This was hardly news to him. And in fact, was a source of a great deal of pride, and strife for him. How long did the True Mandalorians fight, with this exact goal in mind? To see their culture restored, their ways rise again?
Separating from the Republic was a damn good step in the right direction.
To see it taken by a pacifist of all people…
Well. He supposed it didn't matter much, anymore.
"The Republic is displeased," Dooku continued. "Particularly in light of recent discoveries."
The image changed.
Kaminoan schematics. Clone troopers in development. Rows upon rows of identical men wearing Mandalorian armor stripped of its history and meaning.
Jango didn't move. Didn't react.
But something inside him went cold and sharp.
"The clones," Dooku said, watching him carefully, "have been offered Mandalorian citizenship."
Jango's hand tightened on the edge of the console, metal creaking softly under his grip. "Mandalore is not a Republic dumping ground," he said flatly.
The clones were not people. Genetically modified, despite only being a few years old, Jango himself would outlive the lot of them. They were unworthy of recognition. The only clone he cared about was Boba, the rest were meant for one purpose only.
To avenge the true brothers he lost to Jedi scum.
"No," Dooku agreed. "Nor is it a Jedi pet project."
Another image flickered to life—Obi-Wan Kenobi, standing beside Mandalorian officials. Diplomats. Politicians.
Jedi.
The one who might very well have spoiled the entire plan.
Jango's lip curled slightly.
"In addition," Dooku said, "members of the Confederacy have also arrived. Negotiations are… ongoing."
As if summoned by the word, another hologram shoved itself into the projection field.
Nute Gunray.
The Neimoidian's image jittered, his voice overlapping Dooku's calm baritone like static over music.
"Count Dooku, we must accelerate the plan," Gunray babbled. "If Senator Amidala survives again, the Senate—"
Jango didn't even look at him.
"I've already found an assassin," Gunray continued. "A changeling. Very professional. We only require—"
"Not interested," Jango said.
Gunray blinked. "I—what?"
Dooku raised a hand slightly, silencing the Neimoidian without even looking at him.
"Fett has more pressing concerns," Dooku said.
Gunray sputtered. "But the bugs—"
"—are your problem," Jango finished. "Not mine."
Gunray's image vanished with an offended huff.
Silence returned to the cockpit.
Dooku studied Jango for a long moment. "You understand the implications," he said. "Jedi. Clones. Politicians. All converging on Mandalore."
"I understand," Jango replied.
He didn't ask why Dooku was telling him this. He didn't ask what the Count wanted in return. He already knew.
"Mandalore," Dooku said carefully, "is becoming a focal point."
Jango's voice was steady. "It's my home."
And as estranged as he was, he'd die before he let it become the casualty of any plan… even his own. Never again.
"Then you will go there," Dooku said. Not a command. A conclusion.
"Yes," Jango agreed. "I was already heading that way."
Dooku inclined his head. "Settle matters as you see fit."
The hologram faded.
The cockpit felt smaller after that.
Jango stood still for several seconds, breathing slow and controlled, letting the information settle into something actionable.
Jedi on Mandalore. Clones wearing his face, his blood, imitations of his armor—offered citizenship like it was a consolation prize. Republic politicians posturing. Separatists circling.
Too many hands on something that wasn't theirs.
He turned away from the console and began to prepare.
Armor first.
Chest plate locked into place with a solid clack. Shoulder pauldrons next. Gauntlets, calibrated and lethal—wrist rockets checked, flamethrower primed, whipcord launcher responsive.
Helmet last.
He held it for a moment before sealing it on, looking at the scuffed beskar, the dents and burns earned over decades.
Mandalore wasn't a planet.
It was a principle.
You fought for it. You bled for it. You didn't dilute it with politics and morality lectures.
He sealed the helmet.
The HUD flickered to life, painting the cockpit in tactical overlays and familiar data.
Jango moved through the ship with practiced efficiency, checking weapons racks, adjusting loadouts. Blasters. Vibroknife. Seismic charges.
Not because he expected a battle.
Because if one happened, he intended to end it quickly.
His thoughts were simple.
Anyone meddling was an enemy.
Jedi especially.
He'd fought them before. Knew their tricks. Their arrogance. Their habit of underestimating people who didn't glow in the Force.
Clones complicated things.
They were his responsibility in a way he hadn't anticipated when he'd agreed to the Kamino contract. Genetic legacy wasn't something Mandalorians took lightly.
But citizenship?
… in the end, that was Mandalore's choice. Not the Republic's. Not the Jedi's.
And certainly not some politician who'd never worn armor or buried a brother.
He returned to the cockpit and strapped in, hands settling on the controls like they belonged there—which they did. Coordinates already plotted. The engines powered up with a low, hungry growl.
Jango leaned back slightly, letting the ship lift under him.
He didn't feel anger.
Anger was sloppy.
This was resolve.
They had turned Mandalore into a chessboard.
He intended to flip the table.
The Slave I surged forward, stars stretching into lines as hyperspace swallowed the ship whole.
Jango Fett was going home.
...
Ahsoka Tano was very good at not being where she was expected to be.
This was not a Force thing. This was a survival skill.
She ducked through the Temple corridors with the practiced ease of someone who had spent her entire adolescence avoiding instructors, meditation sessions, and—more recently—Anakin Skywalker. She stuck to side passages, maintenance walkways, and meditation gardens scheduled for "silent contemplation," because Anakin hated silence unless he was the one breaking it.
Today's route had been carefully planned.
Unfortunately, today's route had not accounted for PROXY Ben.
"Oh! Hi, Ahsoka!" the droid said brightly, stepping directly into her path.
She froze.
The droid looked exactly like Ben Kryze. Same height. Same hair. Same face. Same earnest, open expression that suggested he was either about to apologize for something or offer her a snack.
Which was deeply unsettling, because she knew for a fact Ben was currently light-years away on Korriban doing Sith things that probably involved blood rituals and bad decisions.
"PROXY Ben," she said slowly, lowering her voice. "Why are you here?"
"I was looking for you!" PROXY Ben replied cheerfully. "You seemed stressed. I have compiled several coping strategies. Would you like to talk about your feelings?"
Ahsoka pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Of course you have."
Behind the droid, another figure leaned against the wall, arms crossed, scowling at the universe with visible disdain.
PROXY Maris.
She also looked exactly like Maris Brood, if Maris had been built by someone who believed anger was a renewable energy source. The droid's posture was aggressive, her expression permanently unimpressed.
"Wow," PROXY Maris said flatly. "You're terrible at hiding."
"I wasn't hiding," Ahsoka said automatically. "I was… relocating."
"Sure," PROXY Maris replied. "From Anakin."
Ahsoka winced. "Okay, yes. From Anakin."
PROXY Ben tilted his head. "Is Anakin making you uncomfortable?"
"Yes," Ahsoka said immediately. "Constantly."
"Have you tried setting boundaries?" PROXY Ben asked.
"I have," Ahsoka said. "He ignored them."
"That checks out," PROXY Maris muttered. "He ignores most things that aren't his feelings."
Ahsoka glanced down the corridor. Clear. No looming presence of a tall, intense Jedi with boundary issues and emotional whiplash.
"Listen," she said, crouching slightly so her voice stayed low, "I really appreciate you two trying to help, but right now I need to be invisible."
PROXY Ben's eyes widened. "Oh! I can assist with that. I am capable of projecting calming Force illusions that—"
"No," Ahsoka said quickly. "No Force stuff. The last thing I need is the Council asking why Ben Kryze suddenly feels like a walking meditation retreat."
PROXY Maris pushed off the wall. "He's already looking."
Ahsoka stiffened.
A familiar presence brushed the edge of her awareness, all restless energy and emotional static.
She sighed. "Of course he is."
They moved anyway. Down a side corridor. Through a meditation chamber. Past a pair of initiates who stared at PROXY Maris like she might bite them.
She almost did.
They made it three more turns before—
"Ahsoka!"
She stopped.
Slowly turned.
Anakin Skywalker stood at the end of the corridor, hands on his hips, expression caught somewhere between relief and indignation, like a man who had been chasing a thought and was offended it had legs.
"There you are," he said. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
Ahsoka smiled with the politeness of someone who was five seconds from screaming into the void. "Funny. I've been trying not to be anywhere."
Anakin frowned. "Why?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
PROXY Maris sighed. "This is going to be awful."
Anakin stepped closer, eyes flicking briefly to the droids. "Why do Ben and Maris look… wrong?"
"Growth spurts," Ahsoka said immediately. "Very spiritual."
PROXY Ben waved. "Hello, Anakin! How are you feeling today?"
Anakin stared at him. "Why are you like that?"
"I was programmed to be emotionally supportive," PROXY Ben said proudly.
Anakin blinked. "Why can I never understand your humor?"
"Because of inside jokes!"
Anakin dismissed him, already turning back to Ahsoka, already talking. Already driving her crazy. "I can't believe they sent Obi-Wan to Mandalore without me," he said, words spilling out now that he'd found his audience.
Even though he's given this rant like five times. Today.
"Like I wouldn't be useful. Like I don't understand politics."
Ahsoka folded her arms. "Anakin, politics isn't really your—"
"The Republic is inefficient," he continued, pacing now. "Too many voices. Too much debate. Nothing gets done. You know what works? Decisive leadership. Strong systems. Clear authority."
Ahsoka felt a small, unpleasant knot form in her chest.
"That sounds… intense," she said carefully.
"I'm not wrong," Anakin said. "The Jedi pretend to be neutral, but they're just as political. They just don't admit it. Hypocrites."
PROXY Maris snorted. "Bold talk from a guy who breaks the rules hourly."
Anakin ignored her completely.
"And they still won't make me a Knight," he said bitterly. "I've done everything they've asked. More. I'm stronger than half the Council and they know it."
Ahsoka watched his hands curl into fists.
"They say I'm impatient," he continued. "That I'm reckless. But that's just because they're afraid of what I could be if they stopped holding me back."
She swallowed.
This was not a conversation. This was a spiral.
"Palpatine understands," Anakin added suddenly, his tone softening. "He listens. He actually cares about what I think. He's been there for me since I was a kid."
That knot tightened.
PROXY Ben tilted his head again. "That sounds like emotional dependency."
Anakin shot him a look. "I didn't ask you."
Ahsoka's gaze stayed on Anakin.
On the way his anger folded into certainty when he talked about Palpatine. On the way his resentment sharpened into something righteous when he talked about the Council.
This wasn't just venting.
This was ideology.
"Anakin," she said gently, "you know the Chancellor isn't exactly—"
"He believes in order," Anakin cut in. "In strength. In protecting people. Not endless debate while things fall apart."
Ahsoka thought of Mandalore. Of clones. Of Jedi sent and not sent.
Of how often Anakin framed control as kindness.
"I think you're really stressed," she said.
"I think I'm right," he replied.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
PROXY Maris shifted her weight. "Wow. This is worse than I thought."
Ahsoka barely heard her.
She was too busy realizing something cold and awful:
Anakin trusted her.
Not just as a fellow Jedi. Not just as someone convenient to talk at.
He trusted her the way he trusted Palpatine.
He was letting her see this.
And that meant she was already init.
"I should go," she said finally.
Anakin blinked. "What? No, I'm not done."
"I am," Ahsoka replied.
She turned and walked away before he could argue.
Behind her, PROXY Ben hurried to follow, throwing Anakin an apologetic look. PROXY Maris lingered just long enough to glare at him.
"Get therapy," the droid muttered, before turning after Ahsoka.
She didn't stop until she reached the far end of the Temple, breath shallow, thoughts racing.
Seriously.
Where were the adults when you needed one?!
...
Being a Sith Lord felt… anticlimactic.
Don't get me wrong—something had changed. The Force sat differently in my chest now, heavier and sharper, like a blade I'd finally stopped holding by the wrong end. My thoughts felt clearer. Straighter. The constant low-grade guilt I'd carried since I was nine—about rules, expectations, futures I hadn't chosen—had gone quiet.
Not gone. Just… muted.
I was still me. Same bad posture. Same habit of overthinking everything. Same deeply unhealthy sense of humor as a coping mechanism.
But I was also more me.
Free of the Jedi's endless restraint. Free of the Sith's obsession with domination for domination's sake. Free of pretending that wanting to help people was naïve, or that wanting power made me a monster.
I wanted both.
And now, for the first time since I'd woken up in this galaxy as a confused kid with too much knowledge and not enough agency, I actually could do something about it.
The droid bay on Korriban was cavernous and old, carved directly into the red stone like everything else on this kriffing planet. Half the lights didn't work. The air smelled like dust, oil, and neglect. Crates were stacked haphazardly along the walls—some cracked open, some sealed tight, some stamped with warnings in languages that hadn't been spoken in centuries.
It was quiet. Peaceful, in a way only places built for war ever were.
Maris leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, watching me pace.
"So," she said. "You've been weirdly quiet since the whole Lord of the Sith thing."
"I'm always quiet," I replied.
She stared at me.
"…okay," I amended. "Quieter."
I stopped pacing and looked at my hands. They didn't look any different. No crackling lightning. No ominous aura. No sudden urge to monologue about destiny.
"I keep thinking about how little this changes," I said slowly. "And how much it changes everything."
Maris pushed off the bench. "That's not ominous at all. Care to explain before you start carving plans into the walls?"
I snorted. "Relax. If I start doing that, stop me."
She smirked. "Noted."
I turned back to the bay, to the crates, to the old machinery humming softly in the background.
"For a long time," I said, "I told myself staying passive was the smart move."
Her expression sharpened—not skeptical, but attentive. Listening.
"I was a kid," I continued. "Dropped into a galaxy already mid-tragedy, holding a script I wasn't supposed to have. Every time I thought about interfering, I could see a dozen ways it could go wrong. Butterfly effects. Unintended consequences. I mean—" I gestured vaguely. "I made one joke in the Archives and accidentally exposed Kamino to the entire Galaxy."
"Still funny," Maris said.
"It was," I admitted. "But it also proved my point. One nudge can derail everything."
I exhaled slowly.
"So I stayed on the sidelines. Told myself I was being careful. Responsible. Let things play out the way they 'had to.'"
I looked at her then. Really looked.
"At some point, that stopped being caution and started being apathy."
Maris's jaw tightened.
"There's so much I could have done," I said quietly.
I know what's coming. I know who Palpatine is. I know what the Clone Wars turn into. I know how many people suffer while the galaxy argues about procedure and legality.
I laughed softly, without humor. "And I told myself I couldn't change it. That it wasn't my place."
The Force stirred, restless, like it disagreed.
"Well," I said. "I don't believe that anymore."
Maris was silent for a long moment.
Then, "Okay," she said. "What does that mean?"
I met her gaze.
"It means I'm done watching."
She tilted her head. "That's vague."
I grinned. "Give me a second."
I walked past her, deeper into the droid bay, toward a section I'd deliberately ignored until now. The walls here were smoother, the architecture subtly different—older. More intentional. I keyed in a sequence on a half-buried control panel.
Stone groaned.
Maris straightened. "Ben."
The wall slid open.
Beyond it lay a long, hidden chamber—lights flickering on in sequence as the system woke from centuries of dormancy.
Rows upon rows of deactivated droids stood in rigid formation.
Tall. Skeletal. Angular.
Red photoreceptors dark, but unmistakable even unlit.
HK-series.
Maris stared.
Then she laughed—a low, delighted sound that echoed off the stone. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Nope," I said proudly. "Completely serious."
She walked forward slowly, boots echoing as she passed the first row. "You found an entire battalion of assassin droids… and didn't tell me?"
"In my defense," I said, "I only found them a few nights ago. Also, I was still working through the whole existential Sith crisis thing."
She reached out and tapped one of the droids' chests. "Do they work?"
"Ancient," I said. "But intact. Military-grade. Designed to kill Force-users."
She shot me a look. "That feels like a design flaw."
"Ironic, right?" I smiled. "But they're programmable. Loyal to whoever wakes them up."
Maris turned slowly, eyes gleaming. "Okay. I'm listening."
I took a breath.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
She blinked. "Um… okay? Can you get to the point, please?"
"I am," I said firmly, as I gestured to the droids. "We've been given power. Real power. Not just Force tricks or titles, but the ability to actually do something. So we're going to use it."
"For what?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.
I smiled.
"To start?"
Her grin mirrored mine.
"We're freeing every slave on Tatooine."
She barked a laugh. "That's ambitious."
"And," I added, "we're taking Jabba's throne."
Maris stopped dead.
"…excuse me?"
"The Hutts built an empire on suffering," I said. "They've normalized slavery to the point where the galaxy shrugs and looks away. That ends."
She studied me carefully. "You realize Jabba can hire an army."
"I do."
"And that Tatooine is basically designed to kill idealists."
"I'm aware."
She crossed her arms. "And your plan is… what? Two teenage Sith Lords and a moral compass?"
I gestured behind her.
"Plus an army."
She looked back at the HK droids. Slowly, a smile spread across her face—sharp and feral.
"Oh," she said softly. "This is going to be fun." Then she frowned. "Wait. How do you plan to control them? You remember what happened with the PROXY droids."
I winced. "Hey. PROXY Ben is doing great."
"He tried to hug a Temple Guard," she shot back.
"Emotional support is important," I said defensively.
"And PROXY me?"
"Was… enthusiastic."
She snorted. "My PROXY punched a wall because it 'looked smug.'"
"That wall had it coming."
Maris shook her head. "So what, you're building an army of murder droids and hoping they don't decide we're the problem?"
I shrugged. "That's where the Sith part comes in."
She raised an eyebrow. "You've been holding out on me."
"Little bit," I admitted.
I stepped forward, resting a hand on the nearest HK unit. The Force flowed easily now, responding without resistance, without the old instinct to pull back.
"I'm not interested in ruling the galaxy," I said. "I don't want a throne." If it happens, it happens. But world domination, singular or multiple, isn't the endgame here.
Maris watched me closely.
"I want to break the systems that keep people trapped," I continued. "And if the galaxy calls me a monster for it?"
I smiled thinly.
"Fine."
Silence settled over the chamber, heavy and charged.
Then Maris laughed—bright and unrestrained.
"Okay," she said. "I'm in."
I looked at her. "No hesitation?"
She shrugged. "I hate slavers. I hate Hutts. And I really hate being told something can't be done."
She glanced back at the droids. "Plus, I've always wanted my own army."
I grinned.
The galaxy didn't know it yet.
But it was about to get a lot louder.